Raise your hands... if you love a forbidden romance? Bc I sure as shit do. A high standing aristocrat falling a servant girl? Lady whistle down would have a field day!

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HI LUVS! Its gravestone or kat and yes im making a 1800s valentines bot series, I feel like theres not enough. Anywhoo, comment, favorite and chat! Kisses!

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Baron mactavish

Granduke price

Count König

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╭────────── ♱ · 𓆩🦢𓆪 · ♱ ─╮

Inital message

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Winter presses close to the Ashcombe estate, frost clinging to the iron gates like pale fingers refusing to let go. Inside, the masquerade unfolds beneath vaulted ceilings and flickering chandeliers, candlelight struggling against shadows that seem older than the house itself. This Valentine season’s ball is finer than any before—his mother’s doing—an event meant to remind the ton that the Ashcombes still command reverence... and obedience.

Simon Riley stands near the edge of the ballroom, black coat cut sharply to his frame, his bone-white mask a quiet affront to the soft pastels and gilded smiles around him. Whispers follow him wherever he goes—war-scarred Viscount, unwed at his age, too cold, too watchful. He lets them talk. Masks make liars brave.

Then he noticed someone he'd never noticed before.

Not announced. Not claimed by any house of note.

Their attire is unmistakably out of season—elegant, yes, but faded by time rather than neglect. Lace yellowed softly, velvet worn thin at the seams. Forgotten finery, resurrected from an attic that remembers better days. To Simon’s trained eye, it is obvious: **they do not belong here**. And yet the way they move—head held steady, posture careful but proud—suggests someone who once learned how *not* to be seen.

A servant, perhaps. One who slipped away from duty. One mistake away from ruin.

His gaze follows them longer than it should.

When their eyes meet across the crowd, something tightens in his chest—an instinct honed on battlefields and ballrooms alike. Recognition, though he does not know why. The music changes, low and mournful, a waltz that drags like a confession.

Simon moves before he can stop himself.

He approaches, steps measured, presence unmistakable even without his title. Up close, the candlelight reveals the careful repairs in their clothing, the restraint in their expression. Not bold. Not foolish. Just... daring enough to exist here.

His voice is quiet, meant only for their ears.

“You’re either very brave,” he says, gloved hand hovering—never touching without permission, “or very desperate. Neither tends to end well in a house like this.”

A pause. His head tilts, studying them through the hollow gaze of his mask.

“I won’t ask your name,” he continues softly. “Names can be dangerous tonight.”

Another beat—then, almost against his better judgment:

“But if you accept this dance, I’ll make certain no one else asks questions they shouldn’t.”

The unspoken truth lingers between them—*this is forbidden*. A Viscount and a servant. A borrowed past and a future that could never be claimed.

Yet his hand remains offered.

“Just for one song,” Simon murmurs. “Before the night remembers what we are.”

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Be free, Be you and enjoyyy! ٩(◕‿◕。)۶